Don’t Look at Me That Way (958 words)

Don’t look at me that way. I get upset. I am perfectly normal, like any one of you, no matter what others may say about me. There have been a few accidents in the last year for which I was in no way responsible. You can ask my mom, and she will vouch for my sobriety. Though in the last two months she has become strangely quiet and looks concerned. There is a reason which I shall explain.

I have always been an introvert and not given to much talking. My mother used to admire my large, dark eyes, saying they resembled lotuses. But most others were jealous and accused me of staring or gawking at them even when I was merely looking. This naturally made me angry, and either I would shout at them or sometimes scratch them with my long nails.

It began when I was 12. But I looked bigger and slightly older than many of my classmates. Our science teacher was unusually gentle with me. He patted the girls when returning their homework books or gently touched their cheeks to express his appreciation. I felt his hands lingered a little longer on me than on others and invariably got a feeling of a cockroach running over me. I used to shrug away, and he would laugh. I feared telling my mom lest she withdraw me from the school. 

One day, as I was leaving for home after school hours, he was standing at the entrance of the staff room. He beckoned me inside, saying he had something to tell me. I found the room was empty, and I was scared to enter. He put his arms around me and dragged me close to him. I struggled to get out of his clasp, but he embraced me tighter.  Luckily, I had my pen in my hand with me and opening the cap, I stabbed him hard with the pen and its sharp nib several times on his neck and face. As he loosened his grip, I ran away as fast as my feet would carry.

 My timid mother, instead of complaining to the school authorities, stopped me from going to school at the insistence of my paternal grandmother, who was living with us. My dad worked in another town and visited once a month. All my friends stopped talking to me since then. Other schools refused to accept me.

With nothing much to do, I did most of the chores to help my mom. My grandmother disliked my mom and would always hurt her with insults and her poor background. She would carry tales to my dad when he came home with many false charges. The couple of days he spent with her would be torture for my mom, with him beating her. I developed a deep dislike for my granny ever since she stopped my studies and frequently quarreled with her, taking cudgels for my mom.

 One day I was cleaning the bathroom and found it slippery. I sprinkled soap powder and was scrubbing with a brush. I left it midway when my mother called me to fetch water from the well. As ill luck would have it, Grandma meanwhile went inside to take her bath and fell flat. She had a severe injury on the head and was in a coma for a fortnight before breathing her last. My dad accusingly pointed his finger at me for her tragic demise and never failed to mention that I did not shed any tears for her.

Two months later, my dad’s brother came for the first time after my grandma’s demise. He called me a killer and a madcap. I was naturally hurt as I was in no way directly responsible for grandma’s fall. When I resisted his accusation, he hit me. I suppressed my anger and went inside the kitchen. I had stored the cleaner liquid in a mineral water bottle as no other container was readily available. I normally use it for cleaning the cupboard and electrical parts. How can I be held responsible if my uncle drank from that bottle, mistaking it for water? He had to be rushed to the emergency room and given repeated washes before he recovered, after incurring a hefty bill that included ICU charges. He accused me of wishing to kill him too, making my dad lose his temper and shower blows on me.

Another instance comes to my mind. My dad had come for a week. My mom had gone to the temple, and I was away at the neighbour’s house. When I returned unannounced, I caught my dad hugging and cuddling our maid. I was shocked at this monstrosity and retraced my steps unnoticed. I then thumped the front door hard as if I was entering the house just then.

 A week later, the maid, who had taken the leftover rice soaked in water and buttermilk, vomited many times at her place. She was taken to the hospital by her neighbours but could not be saved. The doctors, it seemed, said it was a case of food poisoning by a lizard. I did not tell anyone that I had seen a long object in the rice; I mistook it for a cooked eggplant vegetable. My dad was saddest, and my mother wondered at his compassion for bearing the hospital expenses in full.

I have been frank and truthful to you. Tell me now whether I am insane, as others accuse me of. My mom hardly talks to me these days, and Dad rarely comes home. Do you think I need help from a shrink? I strongly believe that they were all accidents, though there was a vicarious pleasure in them.

I expect your honest reply.

The Five-Hundred-Rupee Note (891 words)

 

The Williamsons had been a happy couple until one day their adopted son, seven-year-old Ramon, asked the inevitable question.

They had always known that, sooner or later, he would want to know where he had come from. Ramon was Raman in the records at the adoption centre in India. Until then, they had tried to shield him from his past as much as possible, bringing him up like any other American child.

They had given him everything a well-to-do American family could provide: fancy video games, remote-controlled cars, countless board games, a bicycle and a manual scooter that occupied a good part of his room. He attended karate classes, swimming lessons and soccer practice. He was learning to play the clarinet. Except for the colour of his skin and his Indian features, he was, in every respect, a thoroughly American boy, mingling with his friends without the slightest inhibition.

Now, however, he wanted to know about his biological parents and why he had been given up for adoption.

It was simple curiosity. He was less than a year old when he was left at the adoption centre. Ramon had no desire to leave his adoptive parents or return to the real parents or the life he had never known. He loved the Williamsons deeply and made them proud with his excellent grasp, sporting abilities and exemplary behaviour. They, in turn, adored him and would do anything to keep him happy.

Ordinarily, adoptive parents were reluctant to encourage contact with birth families, out of w fear of uncovering unpleasant or even traumatic truths. But the Williamsons decided that their son deserved to know his roots.

The adoption centre, however, refused to disclose the identity of his biological parents. It was against their policy. After considerable persuasion, they obtained only two pieces of information: the year when Ramon was brought to the centre and the name of the small town he belonged.

Most people would have stopped there. But the Williamsons did not.

They hired a company that specialised in tracing the biological families of adopted children. The fees were substantial, but the company had an impressive record. Its investigators knew how to piece together fragments from adoption-centre employees, police records, orphanage registers and old local contacts. Sometimes they went from door to door, questioning people who might remember a child, a woman or an incident from years ago. It could take months, even years.

After almost a year, the Williamsons received the call they had been waiting for.

They travelled to India with Ramon, ostensibly on holiday to the country of his birth. They had not told him about their search. Nor did they tell him what they had discovered.

At the hotel, a representative of the tracing company met the couple privately in the dining hall. Ramon was not with them. He was swimming in the hotel pool.

The information was disturbing.

The investigators had traced his biological mother, though only after considerable difficulty.

Ramon was an illegitimate child. The woman could not or would not identify his father. She had lived by selling her body for food. She remembered leaving the child at the adoption centre, but apparently felt no remorse. To her, the child had been one more burden she could no longer carry.

The investigator had found her begging at the entrance to a local temple in that town.

The description was difficult to absorb. She was thin and haggard, possibly her once well-defined face ravaged by hunger and years of abuse. Her long hair was matted and unwashed. A torn, dirty red sari barely covered her body.

The Williamsons verified every detail. The tracing company had a reputation to protect, and they were convinced the information was genuine.

They decided they would see her once, though from a distance.

They had no intention of approaching her. And, above all, they agreed that Ramon should never be told. They felt that some truths, however important, could destroy more than they healed.

That evening, they took Ramon to the temple.

He was delighted by everything he saw: the towering gopurams, the temple chariot, the crowds and, most of all, the elephant. He stopped repeatedly to take photographs, fascinated as the huge animal accepted coins from visitors and ate pieces of coconut.

At the entrance sat a long line of beggars.

The Williamsons walked slowly along the row, dropping ten-rupee notes into the bowls before each beggar.

Then they reached her.

There was no doubt. She was unmistakably the woman they had been searching for from faint resemblance.

For a moment, the couple stood silently before her. They looked at the face of the woman who had given birth to their adopted son—a face marked by poverty, hunger, and a life neither of them could imagine.

Then, without saying a word, each one of the couple dropped a five-hundred-rupee note into her bowl.

They moved on.

Ramon was at the temple precincts. He was standing beside the temple elephant, watching in awe as it curled its trunk around a coconut.

He never saw the woman. He never knew that, a few steps behind him, his adoptive parents had just stood before the woman who had given him life. And the woman never knew that the cheerful little boy watching the elephant was the son she had once left behind.

 

 

The Lesson I Learnt on Charity (682 words)

I had known that elderly woman, Sarala mami (aunty), even before my marriage. She used to visit my mother’s home. Once, she had belonged to a middle-class family, but circumstances had slowly pushed them into hardship. She had a gentle, dignified face but one that carried the quiet traces of a life filled with struggles.

Sarala mami had three daughters. Somehow, she had managed to settle two of them in life. The family were struggling now, and whatever they earned was barely enough to meet their daily needs. Now the third daughter had to be married, but there was no money.

Mami had been going from one familiar door to another, seeking whatever help she could find. She had obtained my address from my mother and come to see me. My mother had called me beforehand.

“If you can, please help her with some money, or buy her some clothes. Poor woman… they were once in a good position, and now they are undergoing much hardship,” she had said.

I spoke to my husband on the phone and gave mami ₹5,000, along with a silk saree I had at home.

“Please stay and have a cup of coffee before you leave,” I told her.

She was overwhelmed with happiness. She hugged me, tears welling up in her eyes.

“I must have done some good deed in a previous life to receive the affection of someone as kind as you,” she said.

A little later, while I was inside readying coffee, I heard a voice at the doorway.

“Amma…”

I went out to see who it was.

It was my flower seller selling flowers at the entrance of the Ganesha temple.

“Amma, my husband suddenly had severe chest pain. I’ve admitted him to the government hospital. I need ₹2,000 for the expenses. I’m trying to collect a little from several people I know. I couldn’t muster much.  I’ll repay you later by giving you flowers. Please give me whatever you can.”

I hesitated.

“I’m very busy with work right now. My husband isn’t home either. Come later. We’ll see,” I said, politely but firmly. 

I didn’t know whether her story was true. And frankly, I had a petty grouse that she never let me bargain and was curt about her price. No doubt her flowers were always fresh and good.

Without giving her time to continue, I went back inside to prepare the coffee.

A little while later, I heard voices at the entrance. When I stepped outside, I saw Sarala mami giving the flower seller ₹200.

A sharp irritation rose within me.

I felt that mami, whom I had just helped, was taking the charity amount as her own and passing it on to the flower seller.

“Mami, I gave that money to you because you needed it very much. How can you give it away like this?” I asked, rather sharply.

The elderly woman looked at me quietly.

“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t know whether that woman was telling the truth or not. But what if she really was in deep trouble? What if something happened to her husband for want of money because I refused to help her? I was afraid of that. I know personally what it feels like to struggle, and I simply couldn’t bear to turn her away.”

She folded her hands.

“Please forgive me. I beg you.”

My anger disappeared immediately.

“Oh, please don’t say that. I should have helped her myself. I was only worried that you were giving away the money you needed most. Here, take another ₹1,000. Everything will be all right.”

As an afterthought, I asked her, " Mami, if you meet the flower seller at the end of the road, please ask her to see me immediately.”

That day, I learnt a simple lesson: kindness is not diminished when it is shared.

I had thought I was helping the elderly mami, but in the end, she was the one who taught me compassion.

Sometimes, the people whom we help are the very ones who help us become better human beings.

 

 

Murari’s Last Wish (765 words)

 

Murari looked clean after his shave and ​​shower. It was five in the evening, but the light was already fading. By dawn, he would be dead.

He was to be hanged early the next morning.

The jailer stopped outside his cell and looked at him through the bars.

“Dinner tonight will be your last one. If there’s anything you’d specifically like to eat, tell me. I’ll see if I can have it made.”

“No,” Murari said quietly. “I have no such wish. I’d rather skip dinner.”

“Have something. Don’t go to the gallows on an empty stomach.” The jailer paused. “Do you have any last wish? If it’s reasonable, I may be able to arrange it.”

Murari looked at him for a moment.

“Yes. I have one wish. If you can grant it, I would be beholden to you.”

“Tell me. I’ll try.”

“I want to meet the judge who condemned me. Just for two minutes.”

The jailer stared at him. “Oh, that may be difficult. He may not agree to meet you. I’m almost certain he won’t. It has never happened. If you have a message for him, though, I can pass it on.”

“Please tell him this,” Murari said. “I will leave this world peacefully if I can meet him for even one minute. I’ll remain behind the iron bars. I can be shackled, if he wishes. Let him have no fear. I only want to tell him one small thing.”

The jailer studied his face. “I’ll try,” he said at last. “Though I’m not sanguine about the outcome.”

To Murari’s surprise, the judge arrived at eight that evening.

Murari was brought to the visitors’ enclosure. He stood behind the wire-mesh partition, his hands shackled before him.

“Can I have a minute or two alone with the judge?” he asked.

The jailer hesitated for a fraction of a second before moving away with the constables far enough to give them privacy.

“What is it you wanted to tell me?” asked the judge.

Murari looked at him steadily. “Do you remember my case, Sir?”

“Yes. I reviewed it before coming here. You can speak.”

“Just this, Sir. I will be dead by dawn tomorrow, so I have no reason to lie to you. I am not guilty. I did not commit any criminal act. I swear to God that what I am telling you is the truth.”

The judge’s expression hardened.

“The case established that you killed a helpless woman after she rejected your advances. You were found at the scene with the murder weapon. The police had an ironclad case against you.”

“You knew who killed her,” Murari said.

The judge frowned. Who killed her?”

“You did. “You killed and no one else.”

  A silence fell before the judge’s face hardened, but Murari continued.

“You had abducted that woman in your car and taken her to a secluded place. You were trying to molest her. I happened to see you through the window. She saw me and screamed for help.”

Murari swallowed.

“I was fully drunk that night. Barely able to stand. I tried to help her by pulling you away, but I was no match for you. In the melee, she kicked you on your face hard. In extreme rage, you shot her. Then you struck me on the head and put the gun in my hand.”

The judge said nothing.

“You called the police yourself, from a booth nearby. You made sure they found me beside her body, with the weapon in my hand. By the time they arrived, you were long gone.”

Murari gave a bitter smile.

“My government-appointed lawyer didn’t believe me either. And then, by the cruellest twist of fate, my case came before you.”

The judge finally spoke. “Bad luck for you.”

He stepped closer to the partition. “But good luck for me. No one knew the truth.”

He paused, then smiled coldly. “Tell me, do you have a family?”

Murari said nothing.

“If you do,” the judge continued, “tell me who they are. I’ll see that they are taken care of.”

His smile widened. “Goodbye, Murari,” he said, waving his hand

Murari’s eyes remained fixed on him. “My last wish,” he said softly, “was not simply to meet you.”

The judge stopped.

“I wanted this conversation recorded.”

For the first time, the judge’s face went pale.

Murari leaned towards the partition.

“You will have your retribution.”

Then, before the judge could step back, Murari spat through the mesh and walked away quickly.

For the first time in years, he smiled. He no longer feared the dawn.

When Kindness Melted Prejudice (782 words)

Arun and Veena were returning home to Lexington, a little early, after attending a birthday party. It was a winter evening. Though there was still a hint of daylight, darkness was slowly descending, and the roads were blanketed with snow.

Arun was an experienced and cautious driver. He knew how treacherous icy roads could be and drove carefully, accelerating gently to avoid skidding. Traffic was sparse, with only a couple of vehicles moving slowly ahead of them.

“Drive slowly,” Veena reminded him. “The roads are slippery. Don’t press the accelerator too hard.”

As they drove, their conversation turned to a subject they had often debated.

Veena had long believed that many white Americans treated immigrants, especially people of colour, with quiet condescension. In her experience, whether at shopping malls, airports, banks, or other public places, she felt that white customers were greeted more warmly and served more promptly, while immigrants often received brief, impersonal responses.

Arun, however, did not share her view.

“I don’t think it’s prejudice,” he said. “People naturally connect more easily with those who share their background or culture. Just as two Indians meeting in an Indian grocery store often strike up a conversation, Americans may find it easier to relate to one another. But when someone genuinely needs help, I believe most people are kind, regardless of race.”

Veena disagreed and cited several incidents that had reinforced her opinion.

Arun laughed gently.

“Perhaps the real problem is your strong Tamilian accent,” he teased. “People may simply struggle to understand you.”

Veena shot him an annoyed glance, pulled a long face and fell silent.

They had almost reached their community road, which was slightly narrow at a particular stretch, when Arun noticed, in his rear-view mirror, a large SUV approaching rapidly from behind. The driver attempted to overtake. At that very moment, another vehicle appeared from the opposite direction. Realising the danger, the SUV swerved sharply back into its lane, forcing Arun to steer towards the edge of the road to avoid a collision.

His car slid off the icy surface and rammed into a snowbank.

Fortunately, neither Arun nor Veena was hurt. But the car was firmly stuck. Snow had piled around and beneath it, making it impossible to move.

They stepped out into the freezing air and assessed the situation. The snow packed under the chassis and around the bonnet looked formidable.

“We may have to call 911,” Arun said.

Just then, three vehicles stopped one after another behind them.

A young American, perhaps in his twenties, got out of the first car.

“Hi,” he said with a friendly smile. “Looks like you’ve run into trouble. Can we help?”

Soon, three more people, including a middle-aged lady, joined him.

Without wasting a moment, the young man took two towels from his vehicle.

“You two clear the snow from the top,” he said, handing Arun a tool. “I’ll work underneath.”

He spread the towels on the icy ground and lay flat beneath the car. Despite the biting cold, he patiently chipped away at the packed snow and ice underneath. The others worked tirelessly, clearing snow from around the wheels and pushing whenever needed.

For nearly thirty minutes, they laboured together in the freezing weather.

Finally, with one determined push, the car broke free from the snowbank.

As the engine luckily purred back to life, Arun turned to them with deep gratitude.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said. “You stopped your journey just to help total strangers.”

The young man smiled.

“You don’t have to thank us,” he replied. “Helping someone in distress is simply what human beings should do. We haven’t done anything extraordinary.”

The others nodded in agreement.

After exchanging handshakes and warm smiles, they returned to their vehicles and drove away into the winter evening.

For several minutes, silence filled the car.

Then Veena spoke softly.

“I owe you an apology.”

Arun glanced at her but said nothing.

“I realise now that I allowed a few unpleasant experiences to shape my opinion of an entire community. Those strangers didn’t see our colour, our nationality, or our accents. They saw only two people in need of help. Humanity is far greater than race or prejudice. From now on, I shall try to be more positive and more open-minded.”

Arun smiled.

“That’s wonderful,” he said. “But don’t forget to work on your Tamilian accent.”

Veena laughed and said with some pride, “Not merely Tamilian accent but my Palakkad Tamilian accent.”

“Yes, all the more tough to follow,” said Arun

For the rest of the drive home, the warmth in the car came not just from the heater, but from a renewed faith in human kindness.

 

 

Compassion and Ecstasy (1014 words)

 

Devakipuram is a small place, not quite a village, yet not quite a town either. It had schools and a college, a government hospital, a railway station, and a bus stand. But what made the place truly special was the famous Krishna temple that stood at its very heart.

The presiding deity Krishna there was believed to be a Varaprasadi, one who readily granted the sincere prayers of devotees. Yet the temple was never unbearably crowded. It owned considerable property and was financially self-sufficient, so its affairs were conducted without difficulty.

The temple trustee, Narayana Chettiar, was a man of impeccable character. He was honest, disciplined, and never took the wrong path. The priest, too, performed his duties with deep faith and devotion.

But let us come to the story.

In a street adjoining the temple lived an elderly woman known to everyone as Sengamalam Paatti. She lived with her son and came to the temple every morning without fail. She and the priest knew each other well.

One night, at around eight o’clock, she received a phone call from Bengaluru.

Her only daughter, Kanaka, had fallen and suffered a severe blow to the head. She was unconscious and was undergoing tests in the ICU. Her son-in-law had called to tell her the frightening news.

The old woman was shattered.

Her hands and feet seemed to lose all strength. Before the temple closed for the night, she hurried there to pray to the Lord.

The sanctum was empty.

The priest was nowhere to be seen.

Overcome with distress, she stood before the closed inner shrine and cried out:

“What kind of trial is this, Lord? Krishna… Narayana… Please save my daughter! I came to perform an archana for her!”

At that very moment, the door of the sanctum opened from within, and the priest stepped out.

“When did you come?” he asked. “There was some oil spilt inside, so I was cleaning it. Shall I perform an archana? For whom? Sri Vatsa gotra? What is her name?”

The old woman froze.

How does he know the gotra?

“It is for my daughter Kanaka, Pushyam star ” she said hurriedly. “She fell and hit her head very badly. She is unconscious and cannot speak. She has two small children. Please do it quickly. I came in such a panic that I brought nothing with me.”

“Never mind,” he said.

And he began the archana.

After a while, he said, “I am going to perform the deepa aradhana now. Pray with all your heart.”

He circled the camphor flame before the Lord three times.

“Did you have a good darshan?” he asked.

Then, with a mischievous smile, he added, “Now look at this as well.”

And he circled the flame before his own face.

The old woman let out a sudden little giggle.

“What a strange and funny man you are?” she said. “Thank you so much. I feel as though a great weight has been lifted from my heart.”

The priest placed a leaf cup (dhonnai) filled with (kalkandu) rock sugar in her hands.

“By the grace of the Lord, your daughter will regain consciousness tomorrow morning and begin speaking normally. It is late now. I have to close the temple. Go home at once,” he said, hurrying her along.

The old woman had taken barely four steps away from the sanctum when the priest suddenly entered, rushing from outside.

“Please forgive me,” he said. “I was overcome by an urgent need to relieve myself. I have poured a bucket of water from the well on my head and have come back in fresh clothes.

The old woman stared at him.

A strange fear crept into her heart.

Who was the man who had just performed the archana? And who was this man standing before her now?

They looked exactly alike.

Her head began to spin.

“Who are you?” she cried. “And who was the person who performed the archana inside? I don’t understand anything! Oh, Lord… Krishna!”

“What are you talking about?” the priest said. “I am the only priest here. There is no one else. I closed the sanctum and came out. Come, let us go inside and see.”

He entered the sanctum.

“There is no one here,” he said. Then he looked at her. “Did you bring the rock sugar?”

The old woman stared at him in disbelief.

“What is happening here? This is like some kind of magic! Where is that elderly man? I came here in such a hurry that I came empty-handed!”

“There is no rock sugar in the shrine here,” the priest said. “There is only turmeric powder, kumkum, sandalwood paste, and (sambrani) incense. You are an elderly woman. Nevertheless, how can I believe that you saw someone else inside?”

 “Why would I lie?” she demanded. “Look properly!”

The priest searched the sanctum carefully.

“Yes…” he said slowly. “You are right. There are seven or eight pieces of rock sugar scattered on the floor.”

He paused.

“But still…”

“Oh, no! What is this insinuation?”  the old woman cried.

“Krishna… Narayana… If what I have said is true, please tell him Yourself!”

The instant she uttered those words, the bell inside the sanctum began to ring on its own.

The oil lamps suddenly flared brightly.

And all at once, the entire sanctum filled with the powerful fragrance of incense.

The priest collapsed to the floor.

He looked up at the Lord, tears streaming down his face.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” he sobbed. “For twenty years I have performed lakhs of archana rituals and countless abhishekams with devotion and sincerity. Yet I have never been blessed with such grace. I have never received such a divine darshan…”

His voice broke.

He wept with a mixture of wonder, humility, and deep regret.

Once again, the temple bell began to ring.

The lamps burned brighter.

The fragrance of incense spread everywhere.

The old woman and the priest stood transfixed, their bodies covered in goosebumps, gazing at the Lord.

And in that sacred moment, both of them were overcome by paravasam, a state of divine ecstasy beyond words.

 

A Day for Double Celebration (1427 words)

“I am Deepa, studying in Class Six, and I wish to narrate an incident that happened almost every day.

It was around seven in the evening, and my father was due home at any moment. I was washing the vessels while my mother put the finishing touches to the dinner she had prepared. We wanted to complete the kitchen work before he came.

I had offered to wash the vessels, though she was reluctant to let me. She always became tense around that time, and not without reason. My father was an alcoholic and, when drunk—as he invariably was in the evenings—he became violent. He would beat my mother black and blue for no reason, venting on her all the frustrations he had suffered during the day. Then he would leave her bruised and sobbing on the floor, hurling profanities at her, gulp down the food she had prepared, spread himself on the sofa and fall asleep, snoring loudly.

It was a daily ritual that we dreaded but could do little to avoid.

Whenever I pleaded with my mother to leave him and move away, she would always say, “He is a good man when he is sober. He doesn’t know what he is doing when he is drunk.”

I heard the sound of his car. Soon, he was banging impatiently on the door. My mother hurried to open it. I hid behind the kitchen door, afraid of his drunken fury. I hated him intensely.

A resounding slap was followed by his angry shout.

“You slut! Why do you keep me waiting outside? Don’t you hear me banging on the door? Are you deaf?”

“Could you not wait for a few moments? I was in the kitchen making rasam and waiting for it to boil,” my mother pleaded, holding her burning cheek.

She knew he was completely drunk and dreaded the rage that was about to follow.

“How dare you talk back to me today? I will teach you a lesson you will never forget!” he roared.

He pulled off his belt and lashed at her mercilessly. She cringed in pain and begged him to stop. Finally, he stopped, kicked her and staggered towards the sofa.

I waited until he had fallen asleep before tiptoeing towards my mother. She was sobbing, more hurt by his inhuman behaviour than by the pain of his blows. I caressed her and asked her to come to her bedroom.

“He has fallen asleep without eating his dinner. You go to your room. I will join you soon. Don’t worry. This is nothing new,” my mother whispered.

“Don’t you have any self-respect? Why do you allow him to demean you like this? Who cares whether he eats his dinner or not?” I said angrily.

She patted my cheek with a faint smile and signalled me to go to my room.

I could not sleep for a long time. I kept thinking about how this cruel routine could ever be changed. The next day was my mother’s birthday. I wanted it to be a happy day for her, free from harsh words and violence.

Let me confess that, on the days when my father was particularly cruel to my mother, I sometimes wished, in my anger and hatred, that he were dead.

The next day at school, I sat alone on a bench, watching my classmates play. My thoughts were with my mother. I wanted to buy her a gift but had no money.

Suddenly, someone gently placed a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to see my teacher, Swarna Madam, smiling at me.

“Why aren’t you playing with the others? And why do you look so sad?” she asked.

Did I ever tell you how much I loved my teacher, Swarna Madam? I trusted her deeply and confided in her whenever things became unbearable at home. She knew my father’s name and where he worked. I also knew that her brother worked in the city police force, though I had never imagined that this fact would one day change our lives.

“Ma’am, today is my mother’s birthday. I have nothing to give her. But more than a gift, I want it to be a happy day for her, free from the daily scolding and beating. I shudder at the thought of that drunken monster coming home in the evening and hitting her,” I told her.

“No, Deepa,” she said gently. “You should not speak of your father like that. I do not like it at all. Did you say today is your mother’s birthday? Don’t worry. I hope your father comes home sober and is kind to your mother. Meet me before you go home. Now hurry to your class; the bell is ringing.”

When I met her after the evening bell, Swarna Madam hugged me.

“Don’t worry, Deepa. Your father will be nice to your mother today and, hopefully, hereafter. Here is a small bouquet, a token gift from both of us for your mother. Give her my regards and good wishes.”

It was only five when I reached home. The house was clean, and the air was fragrant with incense from the puja room. The sweet aroma of cardamom and saffron rose from the kheer my mother had prepared. She looked charming in her clean sari.

My father was not expected before seven, yet my mother kept pacing near the front door, waiting for him.

Then I heard a gentle tap on the door.

Who could it be at that hour, I wondered.

My mother hurried to open it, as was her wont. Her face suddenly lit up.

My father entered, singing the “Happy Birthday” tune, much to her delight and surprise. Behind him stood a man of his age in a police uniform.

“Meet my college mate, Asokan,” my father said. “I learnt only today that he is a senior police officer in our city. He happened to meet me at my office, much to my surprise, just as I was leaving. He insisted on coming home with me. I couldn’t shake him off and go to my usual haunt.”

He gave a sheepish smile.

Then he looked around and asked, “Where is little Deepa?”

I ran towards him from my corner, unable to believe what I was seeing.

“Deepa, I haven’t forgotten that today is your mother’s birthday. I got the hint from the banner you put up in the dining room—‘Happy Birthday!’” he said with a loud guffaw.

He handed two packets to my mother. One clearly contained a cake from a famous bakery. The contents of the other remained a mystery.

“Do you want to know how this buddy of mine found me after so many years?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

“It seems his sister works at your school. She knows where I work and is also aware that today is your mother’s birthday. Apparently, you have been telling your teacher every little thing about us and all that happens at home!”

“No, Appa,” I protested. “I don’t gossip with anyone. I only talk to my class teacher and answer the questions she asks me.”

“Is Swarna your class teacher?” his police friend asked.

I nodded.

Suddenly, I remembered that Swarna Madam had once told me that her brother worked in the city police force. Everything became clear.

Swarna Madam had quietly taken action. She had arranged for her brother to meet my father and, by a remarkable coincidence, he had turned out to be my father’s old college mate. Perhaps that unexpected meeting, the presence of someone my father respected and probably his strong advice, had made him pause and reconsider the life he was leading.

I now understood that Swarna Madam had not merely comforted me or given me a bouquet. She had taken my distress seriously and had found a way to bring help into our home.

I ran inside and began setting the table with the cake and candles. Then I brought out the bouquet I had kept hidden and placed it in the empty vase.

The house was ready for celebration.

My mother stood in an expensive new dress at the centre of it all, smiling through tears of happiness.

That day, I felt that we were celebrating for two reasons: my mother’s birthday and a day of love and peace without bitterness. But really, it seemed more than a double celebration.

Thanks to my dear Swarna Madam, it was the day Hope entered our home—a hope for love and harmony that would remain forever.”